Tanya's Living Hell
by SlimShady2015
Summary: Being X realizes that Tanya will not come to faith with her rising up in the ranks in the military, so he decides to have Tanya assassinated at the end of her speech where she is reborn in another version of that world, but this time possessing no special abilities. in short, Being X cheats.
1. Chapter 1

Tanya's Living Hell

Written By:

Jamie Dominy

Edited By:

The Caretaker

To Begin:

Even Still, A Kindness

I

Early September, in the Year of our Lord, nineteen-hundred and eleven. It was cold and it was rainy. Just as the days are wont to be during the onset of Fall, transitioning not long after into Winter. Soon enough the rain would turn to snow and the cold into a miserable, biting hellfire that left the skin frozen rather than charred.

Deep within the twisting alleys of a city—a particular city that was the capital of the Empire—one poor, drably clothed girl stood, leaning against a brick wall and shivering uncontrollably. The rags draped about her shoulders had nearly fallen to pieces, and with the rain and bitter cold, death seemed to loom as circling vultures.

She watched the passersby going about their daily lives. War and rumors of war hung on the tongues of all—shop keeps gossiped to their customers, ladies in the parlors chatted worriedly amongst themselves, and even men at the bars and businesses held hushed talks. But despite these things, the people went on as carefree as ever, wrapped thick in their warm coats and kept fat on their ample meals.

A pang of hunger ran through her, shook her bones and rumbled her stomach. A shiver tore through her spine and up, into her shoulders, to the base of her skull. Tears welled at the corners of her bright, blue eyes. Her hair—matted to her head with filth and rain—dripped with the unrelenting sky-water, spurred by the force of her shivers, both hunger and cold.

"Damn you, Being X…" she whispered hoarsely. "I was this close. Just couldn't play fair, could you?"

The little girl—hardly beyond her seventh birthday—tried to clench one tiny fist. And yet, she was just too damn hungry and tired. Between the cold, the rain, the hunger and all, she'd not slept through the night in weeks. It was coming together now, every mote of her suffering, and she was fast succumbing to it.

Tanya Degurechaff, once the Devil of the Rhine and most feared soldier of the Empire, now in another when thanks to her mutually held grudge with God (Being X, may it do ya fine) …

She was dying, and damn well knew it.

II

At first, it was simply pride. When that thin veil went to tatters, it was her sense of determination to overcome. Yet, that too did fall short of the situation upon her, and soon left her as well. And when those things were gone…

Only fear of death kept little Tanya going, pushing, fighting to deny God His due.

She'd found herself reborn at the nunnery, her last run cut short by a stray, unseen bullet to the temple. It was mercifully quick—so much so she'd not even realized until she lay cradled in a nun's arms again, being fed by spoon and chided for refusing—but that was the only mercy meted by her cruel tormentor. From there, things had gone distinctly opposite how her first rebirth had.

At the mandatory tests for magical prowess, little Tanya was found sorely lacking. In short, she was little more magically inclined than a sack of potatoes. After this, when rumors of war began to circulate, the nunnery found itself bereft of most donations. Key so were the donations of food and money. Tanya, being one of the smaller children, could do little to stop the older and larger from taking her rations. And when rations were not enough and that first Winter approached, her lack of might could not stop them from taking the newer clothes; this left her with little more than what rags she already had and could scrounge together.

And so, let us ask: Was it any surprise she ran off?

No. Certainly, none could decry or gainsay her choice. Even if one were to ask (and rightly so) how she might do on her own, one still could not say it was a better or worse choice.

It was a choice. Just as humans were gifted from the start. Thus, exercising that last mote left to her by God, Tanya made a choice and went with it so far as she could. This brought her to the capital city, thinking she might find some way to better herself again—as before—and perhaps survive despite all of God's interference.

Now though, her strength and will and pride and all had failed her. Now, little Tanya lay in an alley—no longer leaning on the wall, for even that little strength had fled her—cursing her luck and wailing for her fate.

She missed Tokyo and her warm office. She missed her fine salary and decent apartment. She missed the soft bed and nice clothes, the good meals and ample means…

Slowly, still shivering and stomach growling quite angrily, Tanya let her eyes slip shut. The rain was no longer as needles in her pale flesh, the cold no longer a biting fire seeping into her bones. The wind still blew, powerful and angry and loud, but no longer cut into her very being.

'Just a little nap,' she thought to herself. 'I'll go nick some food and find a place to hole up after a nice, short nap…'

But perhaps, in His cruel and twisted and mysteriously divine ways, God has mercy on even the worst devils among us. Perhaps indeed, for what else might it be called?

Eyes shut and shivers ceased, still and cold as any porcelain doll in the house of a well-to-do young lady, Tanya lay against the wall of the alley. The rain poured down her matted hair, washing through the filthy rags that were all but glued to her flesh. The wind lapped at her, but she did not stir. Her lips were purple, her eyes ringed dark and bagged deeply. Only every once and awhile did her chest rise, a shallow and small breath, to fall again. Slower and slower it became…

And a man, garbed strangely and sporting a long-coat of tough leather, his head crowned with a wide-brimmed preacher's hat, came across that very alley. Despite the bandages across his eyes, he spotted the little girl—all but motionless—laying against the wall.

"Beasts," he muttered to himself. "Nothing but…"

The man in the preacher's hat stopped, turned to her and took a knee. He leaned in close, took the thick leather glove from one hand and touched her cheek. It was cold almost as a corpse, but he could smell some small spark of life in her. Could feel the tiniest pump of life-giving crimson beneath her pallid, nearly purple flesh.

With a disgusted grunt, the man stood and put his glove on. He looked around—down the street one way, then down the other—and thought for a moment to simply go on his way. Yet, perhaps God does indeed have mercy on even the worst devils.

Perhaps…

III

Tanya awoke in a bed that was just a bit too big for her, plush covers pulled up to her chin and a throbbing headache roiling in her skull. When she peeled open her bombardier-blue eyes, the room immediately began to spin. However, one could say nothing if not that Tanya Degurechaff, once Devil of the Rhine, was a headstrong personage. Perhaps fallen, but so long as alive, not completely broken.

The first thing that drifted to her newly awakened state was smell. A particular one at that; the smell of breakfast food, something now so foreign yet still so very unforgotten.

Somewhere (below or beneath) she heard the sounds of sizzling and clinking metal. It also sounded as though someone, perhaps a man by the tenor, were humming a tune as they went about their cooking. The song was haunting and beautiful and quite sad, but it went entirely unappreciated by Tanya. Her mind went immediately to the assumption—rightly so—that food was at hand. This awoke her fully, set her stomach to life once more, and saw the little girl quickly from the unfamiliar bed.

She found the door in the room quickly enough. Once through it, she also discovered that the sounds and smells were indeed coming from below. Down a small flight of perhaps fifteen stairs, to be specific. These she descended in silent anticipation and slight anxiety, wanting desperately a meal for her empty belly yet wondering what awaited her.

Yes, Tanya was still quite weak from her ordeal. Yes, her bones ached and her head throbbed, her chest hurt and her lungs burned with fever. But the house she found herself in was warm, the clothes she now wore soft and fitting. Food lay somewhere close by—its scent tantalizing and offering renewed vigor by itself—and so, her illness and its effects went mostly unnoticed.

At last, she came to a lone door at the end of a short hallway. At the opposite end was another to which she'd gone first. But upon seeing the heavy iron of which it was cast and noting the many chains and locks across it, she rightly intuited that this was not the door she wanted. Now, standing before the lone wooden door at the opposite end, Tanya psyched herself up for whatever lay inside.

Perhaps it was a predator that had decided to await her wakefulness, if only to see her reactions. Perhaps it was some criminal wishing to hold her for ransom—though truly, that brief thought was laughable to her, thinking how none in this world would pay one red cent for her sorry hide. Or perhaps Being X Himself had decided to pay her a visit, if only to torment her further by prolonging her suffering…

But Tanya put those horrible thoughts aside, steeled herself much as she could and opened the door.

IV

"Good to see you awake," said the man at the stove.

He wore no coat and no hat, but did still sport strange garb indeed. Sure, his grey slacks and nicely shined shoes were ordinary enough. Even the shirt he wore was nothing to be unnerved by. Over this shirt, however, was a vest thickly crossed with what looked like a dozen or more belts. Each had a clasp the size of Tanya's fist, cast of steel or iron or something similar. Most odd of all was his face though, which, despite sporting a warm smile, was made unsettling by the bandages wrapped around his eyes.

'Perfect,' thought Tanya. 'Some blind psycho took me in… How's he even cooking like that?!'

But upon smelling the unadulterated scent of pork and cornbread, Tanya's every worry melted away. She found herself all but floating to the table—at which there were only three chairs—and taking a seat. Like a clockwork doll, almost.

"By the gods, you must be famished," said the man.

Tanya only nodded.

He chuckled at this, then said, "Well, I've got just the thing for that. Give me a moment and I'll bring it over."

The man said no more, and Tanya watched him (quite intently) as he served out ridiculous helpings onto two simple plates. By the look of it, there must have been two entire pounds of food on the one he set before her. This was followed with milk in a simply carved wooden cup. Strangely enough, he offered no utensils.

To one who has experienced true hunger, however, that is no deterrent whatsoever.

"Try not to eat too fast," said the man, taking his own seat across the table. "I don't know how long you've gone without, but you'll probably kill yourself if you rush."

She looked from the massive plate of food to the man across the table. Eyes hidden by the bandages, the sight of him disturbed her a tad. Yet, Tanya's appetite won out all the same. Though she could no longer remember (and is it really a wonder?), it had been an entire month since she'd had more than a few scraps of nearly inedible food at once.

Tanya looked back to her plate and said, "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

The man across from her laughed. Just once, short and deep.

"Good to know you can speak," he said. "I was a bit worried you might've gone soft in the head."

Oh, he had questions for the girl—such as her name, her predicament, where or if she had a home, and so forth—but this man knew the time for them was not at hand. For now, there was a hot meal to share and a warm house to be at ease within. Questions could come later when their bellies were full and their minds focused.

And so, they dug in.

V

About an hour after the meal, Tanya's time on the street came back in force. Which is to say, the effects of it.

The strange, bandaged man had collected their plates and moved them to a small basin next to the stove. There, he set to washing them when, feeling she owed him, Tanya came to stand beside him. She dragged her chair along the way—and by the gods, was it ever heavy—and stood on it, then leaned over the basin to help wash. There were more plates in it, likely left unwashed for a few days.

Enough plates to suggest a family had once lived here, rather than the lone, bandaged man.

"You don't need to help," he protested.

But Tanya did not answer him, only kept on as best she could. A few minutes passed, and with the task nearly complete, the man walked off to do something else. She stood there, on the chair, rinsing off the last wooden cup and readying to dry it.

Just then, a spec of red dripped onto the divot at the base of Tanya's thumb. She stopped and looked at it, wondering what it was, when a few more dropped, now lower on her arm. Still unsure, Tanya reached up to her nose, touched with her pointer and withdrew. Her finger was stained quite the sickly shade of crimson.

She turned around, perhaps thinking to find another towel or handkerchief, and promptly fell off the chair. Before she could put two and two together, Tanya's world was spinning and the headache from earlier swept back into her skull, fresh and full of renewed force. Her stomach lurched and twisted, her flesh broke out in a cold sweat, and the hot meal—so recently enjoyed—came back up to decorate the floor.

"What is it?!" shouted the man, bursting back into the room.

He'd heard the crash and skittering of the chair, knocked over when Tanya fell. Seeing her on the floor now, shivering and turning pale as ash, his heart began to race and his blood lit aflame.

'Not again,' his mind echoed. 'Not again. Not again. Not again, not again, not again…'

When he knelt to scoop the girl up, the bandages about his eyes fell away. Tanya was beginning to swim in the deep, black waters of unconsciousness, but still she noted his strange eyes. They were green and bright as emeralds, but the irises looked as though they'd been crushed and the whites were stricken with so many shoots of red, they could hardly be called white at all.

That was the last thing Tanya saw, though. She drifted quickly thereafter into fevered slumber.

VI

Sometimes we wake and sometimes we sleep. Sometimes we swim, and sometimes we dream in the deep.

Winds blow across all the firmament, gifted breath of those above. One? Many? None?

We cannot say.

Sometimes it is fire and sometimes it is dark. Sometimes it is warm, sometimes cold and stark.

But always is it true, that the choice rests within you…

Sometimes only will and want, sometimes only bloody hunt. Sometimes flesh and bone, and sometimes blood alone.

But always is it true, that it is yours with which to do…

As you please.

VII

Tanya could hear words in the depths of her fevered sleep. Words of a man, talking softly, slowly, staving off tears with choked hitches of breath. None of it made sense. Still though, the words were there. Floating as driftwood amid the deep waters of her mind.

Somehow, she caught one of those driftwood-words and clung to it. With all the might of a sailor fearing to drown in the ocean's unforgiving maw. She clung hard, focused her mind (unwittingly) and was pulled out of slumber by the same. Into a dimly lit room, smelling of incense and sweat. Her sweat? Likely so, given how hot she felt upon coming the slightest bit to.

She could tell by feel—what little she had—that those plush covers were drawn over her again. On her head was something cool and damp. Perhaps a washcloth. Likely a washcloth…

"Viola…" she heard, whispered in quiet sorrow.

"Who's that?" she asked, her voice pitiful and weak.

The man was beside her, sitting in a simple chair pulled close to the bed. On hearing her voice he jolted, surprised, and peered at her with disbelieving eyes. Tanya opened her own to meet his gaze, turning her head slightly and painfully. Again she was struck by how odd they looked, now able to see them with no bandages.

"By all the gods," he sighed, "you still draw breath…"

"I'm a little harder to kill than that," said Tanya. "Still… I'm glad someone had my back."

She looked at him from her pillow, unable to raise her head or self. The man said nothing, only continued to stare with his strange, somehow bestial eyes.

"Just who are you, anyway?" she asked. "And why are you taking care of me like this?"

Again, the man met her with silence.

Tanya broke their mutual stare and turned her gaze to the ceiling, saying, "It's not like I'm ungrateful. I suppose I should just thank you and accept the hospitality. But… I know no one does anything without some compensation in mind. So, what is it you want?"

She punctuated her question by meeting his gaze once more, now intently and convicted. With a stare that said, in no uncertain terms, 'Give me your best shot.'

For a time, it seemed the man simply would not answer her. But at last, with a great sigh, he straightened himself up and looked away. Tanya followed his gaze to a small, simple vanity in the corner of the room. On it rested an equally small mirror, a little porcelain doll, various cosmetic knickknacks, and a chain of gold which draped over the mirror. Strung on the chain was a large pendant, its stone the deepest blood-red Tanya had ever seen.

"I'm afraid you caught it, too," said the man, staring at the pendant. "I'm sorry. Would've been kinder to let you die in that alley, where I found you…"

"What do you mean?" Tanya asked. "What have I caught?"

With another sigh, he said, "My name is Gascoigne. I was a Father once—of my church, and of my family—but now, it's just Gascoigne. Just me…"

He then turned to her and said, "I really should have left you in that alley. When I saw you though, alone and all but dead, I couldn't. I just… I couldn't. Not on a night of the Hunt. Not with all the nightmares roaming about…"

Tanya's heart sped up a bit, firing a sharp pain through her bosom. She coughed hard and tried to sit up. Her stomach, however, protested this quite fervently and stopped her.

"Rest, little girl," said Gascoigne. "That's all you can do. I, however, could offer something to help. It's your choice though…"

"You still haven't told me what I caught," answered Tanya.

Gascoigne took a deep breath and said, "We just call it The Plague. Well, when I say we, I mean those of us left who haven't succumbed to it in one fashion or another."

'Fantastic,' thought Tanya. 'Being X, you insufferable ass. Couldn't just let me try to live as an urchin, so you gave me a plague to go with it?!'

To Gascoigne, Tanya said, "What does this plague do, exactly?"

"Any number of things," replied the man. "Some people die as if fevered. Others waste away in their beds, over months and months. Others still, though… they turn into abominations. Nightmarish perversions of man and beast."

The girl turned back to him, leveled her piercing blue eyes on his, and said, "You said you could offer me something. I take it you have a cure, then?"

"Not quite," said Gascoigne. "More like, I have a solution. It's called the Healing Blood, and the church used to give it out for everything—from simple coughs to deadly diseases. That was before everything went to shit, though. Now, it's the only thing that can stave off the Plague."

Tanya shut her eyes. In the back of her head, she could feel the ache of sickness raging. In the pit of her lungs, itching with every breath, she felt the fire of illness smolder. In her bones was the tremor of disease, coursing and cutting into her every nerve.

"Why didn't you leave me to die in that alley?" she asked, not opening her eyes.

She heard Gascoigne take another breath. It shook his very form. When he released it, it was an equally powerful sigh, almost a sob. The man looked strong to her, so she had somewhat of a decent guess what he was about to say…

"I told you," he answered, "I couldn't just leave you for the beasts."

"No," Tanya pressed. "That's not all of it. Now, stop treating me like I'm stupid and answer me honestly…"

This time, there was no deep breath. This time, there was no long sigh. Only the sound of the man standing, the chair squeaking on the floor, and his footfalls as he walked to the door. Tanya opened her eyes just in time to see him open it and turn back to her.

"Think of it as a stranger's kindness," he said. "Nothing more and nothing less. Get some rest and let that answer satisfy you."

Before she could protest or say anything at all, Gascoigne walked through the doorway and slammed the door behind him. Tanya looked at the door for a while before exhaustion overcame her again, pulling her back into the deep waters of fevered slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

"I regret to inform you that do to my editor ex-communicating me Tanya's Living Hell is being placed on hiatus. This saddens me deeply, the fact that I cannot deliver my vision. However! this is not permanent (or more accurately it doesn't have to be) As soon as I find another capable editor I shall return to it once more. if any of you know anybody who could be of help, or you wish to volunteer your time, please PM me. If i donnt find another editor, there wont be a continuation, so please, I beg your patience and understanding.


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